


sickening

by wakuseiloop



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakuseiloop/pseuds/wakuseiloop
Summary: It’s an almost sickening sort of thing, really, his whole existence.He turns on the tap, lets water flow and wash away stains and spit—lets it swallow and redden and turn pretty pink and pale.The sound’s almost overwhelming—he lets it wash over his senses, spits out a petal stuck under his tongue.His reflection feels almost mocking.It’s all sickening.
Relationships: Minagi Tsuzuru/Miyoshi Kazunari
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> :)

It was an almost sickening sort of thing, Tsuzuru muses, hand to his lips as he swallows.

The way every morning felt a little darker—a little harder to walk through, a little louder in his ears.

The way every voice felt like a lie—felt underwater and all too close.

The way words on his screen flashed and deleted—the way flowers reminded him of feelings he’d rather buy—the way his breathing escalated and dropped all too fast—the way things stopped making sense as he suffocates.

He blinks at himself in the mirror, eyebags heavy and hair disheveled. He looks pale, lacking sleep, somehow worse than usual. He raises the hand on his lips to his hair, ignores the little stains of iron on bleached strands.

It feels rough—feels like forgotten, dry weeds and straw at the back of his house when the weather was in disarray—feels like summer and winter and hell altogether in his fingertips.

He lets his hand fall, drops it on the sink, tilts his head to the side—

He breathes in.

It’s an almost sickening sort of thing, really, his whole existence.

He turns on the tap, lets water flow and wash away stains and spit—lets it swallow and redden and turn pretty pink and pale.

The sound’s almost overwhelming—he lets it wash over his senses, spits out a petal stuck under his tongue.

His reflection feels almost mocking.

It’s all sickening.

His feelings, most of all— his feelings are sickening, the way they crawl up his throat, draw blood and droplets that spill from his lips and onto white porcelain below.

The running water lets the petals float to the surface- washes away the red over white and pale pink hibiscus, leaves them pretty and looking almost like some twisted piece of art.

He closes the sink, tears his eyes away from his reflection and the water—lets his hand fall into the sink, grab at wet and breaking petals before he shoves them to the trash.

The plastic bag crinkles—sound sharp and painful in his ears, and Tsuzuru winces. Droplets of water fly to the floor, and Tsuzuru ignores the fading colour to turn around and leave.

The handle at the door squeaks, metallic and loud—hurts his ears and drowns him.

His head buzzes as he walks, throws the door closed behind him, throat bleeding and bubbling with fears.


	2. Chapter 2

Kazunari doesn’t notice, Tsuzuru thinks, doesn’t notice the way Tsuzuru hides from him in his room, the way his scripts get more painful to write out, the way he’s talking less and less as the raw scratches in his throat burn him from the inside.

It’s a blissful unawareness—in the way he whines when Tsuzuru scolds him for being too loud, in the way he begs to take a picture together—in the way he breathes around Tsuzuru like it’s the most natural thing in the world, all the while Tsuzuru seems to be forgetting how to breathe, how to stay alive.

A blissful unawareness in the way he drops his head on Tsuzuru’s shoulder sometimes—soft hair tickling and scratching at Tsuzuru’s skin and down to his bones.

“Miyoshi-san” he holds back a sigh, fingers twitching where they hover over the laptop keyboard. They’re both on the couch, Tsuzuru’s laptop placed comfortably on his lap, Kazunari holding his phone by his thighs, head a heavy and searing hot weight against Tsuzuru. “You’re being a bother” He can feel a cough building up his throat, can feel leaves that grow and stems against his larynx.

Kazunari turns up to look at him, eyes bright and wide and lips in a pout. “This is, like, terrible though!” He frowns, shoves his phone at Tsuzuru’s face. Tsuzuru grunts, jumps a little and has the laptop in the air for a second—he grabs it before it falls, frowns at Kazunari’s phone screen.

“Miyoshi-san—” Kazunari waves the phone in front of him, Instablam open and bright on the screen.

“Look at this!” Tsuzuru pushes Kazunari’s head from his shoulder, sighs and side eyes at his face before focusing on the phone. There’s a picture open, about 10 likes showing up below it, and one comment that reads nothing more than a string of kaomoji (from Muku, maybe?). Tsuzuru cocks an eyebrow, turns to face Kazunari properly, pulls his laptop screen a little downwards.

“What about it?” His voice feels raspy, painful—his throat feels both about to close up and gaping open—he swallows everything back down, swallows flower petals tickling and his trachea.

Kazunari shakes the phone again, then drops it to his lap and whines. “I got, like, no reactions?” He sits up straighter, stretches, drops himself on the backrest of the couch. “I thought it was a good picture, too” He’s almost mumbling, and Tsuzuru hates that he finds it as cute as it is annoying.

He rolls his eyes, closes his laptop to stand up. “People will show up later, right? Not everyone’s on their phones twenty-four seven” Kazunari looks up at him form the couch “like you, Miyoshi-san” Tsuzuru fakes a teasing smile before turning around, hears Kazunari stand up to walk behind him.

“But it’s been, like, like 12 hours?” Tsuzuru looks at him, shrugs. Kazunari sighs dramatically, lets his phone fall to the couch. “Maybe I should user more hashtags, huh? Like, super exciting ones?” Tsuzuru laughs a little, kind and teasing, and gives him a shrug before leaving the room.

A stem coils around the roof of his mouth, taste of plants and mistakes heavy on his tongue. His laptop feels heavy when he leaves it in his room, and the walk to the bathroom and around the hallways feels like a dream.

He’s drowning.


	3. Chapter 3

Kazunari doesn’t notice, but Masumi does. Masumi, always angry and tired and stupid—he notices. Notices because Tsuzuru won’t leave the room, because he wakes up in the middle of the night to throw up—because his bedsheets are all dark lately, because he looks sicker than ever.

He notices, of course he does.

And then Sakuya does, too.

It’s only a matter of time, he thinks, knees digging into the floor and Masumi’s hand on the back of his jacket (trembling more than he’d ever admit, eyes almost tearing up and _confused_ ). Sakuya’s voice in his ears is as soothing as it is faded—stuck underwater and unintelligible—and Tsuzuru’s not sure if he’s thankful or mortified that he’s being taken care of right now.

It’s only a matter of time, he thinks, coughs wracking through his body as rivers of red leave his lips and hit the marble floor—only a matter of time until everyone finds out, until the whole company _knows_ , until _Kazunari_ knows—

Most of all, it’s only a matter of time until he _dies_ —until hibiscus in his lungs break through flesh and wrap around his bones—until his trachea blossoms with feelings and pains strong enough to stop his breathing.

He coughs—hard and loud—feels the way Masumi’s grip tightens, the way Sakuya’s voice quiets and shakes—vulnerable and as scared as Tsuzuru’s not letting himself feel. The floor below them is tinted red—clogs and stems together with crumpled petals making a sickening sort of canvas, swallowing the floor in their beauty.

Sakuya kneels on the floor next to him, falls on top of red and yellow flowers—it sounds like it hurts—and then he grips Tsuzuru’s jacket (tight and almost desperate—for what? For Tsuzuru to live, maybe, for their makeshift family to not fall apart at his fingertips)

(Desperate for things to just be _fine_ )

(Tsuzuru’s sorry he can’t give him that—a sense of home, a sense of things being _normal_ —

he can’t give him anything anymore).


End file.
